Crack Head II. Lisa Lennox

don't know.” Because she told the police that Tonette gave Crystal the gun, Monique thought it was best to stay away from Tonette.

      “Why?”

      “With everything that went down, I think we need to lay low for a while.”

      “Girl, please!” Tonette spoke irritated. “You think they still trippin' off that shit? Them muhfuckas done moved on. They don't care shit about what happens in the South Bronx.”

      “Well…I don't know, Nette. With Crystal gone, it just don't feel the same.”

      “Regardless of what happened, we still the SBBs baby.” Tonette gave her a pep speech. “We the baddest bitches out here.” She wasn't going to let this shit die until she put it to rest.

      Tonette heard a faint sigh. “Alright, I'll run through.”

      Just for good measure, Tonette called Shaunna too. “Wassup bitch? Wat'cha doin?”

      “I got yo bitch,” Shaunna laughed. “I ain't doin nothin'. Just waiting for this nigga to come through. I tried to call yo ass earlier, you know, see what's poppin.”

      “Who the hell you got rollin through?” Tonette asked. She realized that annoying sound she heard earlier while she was sleeping was her phone ringing.

      “This dude I met at the club the other night. Shit, you know how I do.”

      “Well, I take bitch back,” Tonette laughed, “you a hoe.”

      “Takes one to know one,” Shaunna shot back quickly with laughter.

      “Girl, I know you ain't gonna fuck him with that big ass stomach of yours.”

      “I don't know what kinda fuckin you be doin' but my stomach ain't got shit to do with my pussy,” Shaunna joked. “Maybe if he hit it right, he'll knock this lil muthafucka in the head and tell him to get his ass outta there.”

      Both girls giggled.

      “Well when you done, why don't you head over this way? Monique rollin through too.”

      “A'ight, cool. Hang on for a minute.” Shaunna put the phone down and within seconds, Tonette heard a faint male voice. “Hey, I'm about to take care of something, but I'll be through later.”

      “A'ight, cool.” Tonette hung up.

      5

      WEEKS AFTER THE SHOOTING, Detective Rodney Clifton sat looking at the report of Crystal Moore that he was given by two of his colleagues. It would have been closed as an accidental shooting; however after questioning the other shooting victim and the alleged suspect, there was more to the case than met the eye.

      Detective Rodney Clifton was a 37-year-old, 15-year-veteran of the NYPD. He was a light-skinned black man, tall and slender, with short sandy colored hair and freckles. He didn't look like he was capable of being a cop because of his wimpy appearance and many underestimated him; but those who encountered him knew differently. Rodney started out like every other officer, as a rookie on the beat, but his commitment to the streets and uncanny way of getting information quickly moved him up the ranks.

      He saw the growing amount of hustlers on the streets but unlike most hot headed cops, Rodney didn't go after them immediately. He watched them long enough to see their weaknesses, their strengths and their habits. He also noticed that they were hustling strictly in the South Bronx so he figured as long as they stayed in their community, poisioning their own kind, it really didn't matter. He didn't like black folks who tried to come up without working for it. Niggas always wanna hustle, he always thought. As a cop, he knew that the corner hustlers couldn't provide anything so he had to go after the big dog, but he knew by jumping too hastily, he could fuck up something bigger. As a man, he watched and waited for the right time to make his move.

      On a late night stroll of South Bronx, he saw a young man who caught his eye. He was a light skinned fellow, a little rough around the edges, standing about 5-feet-8-inches with weight that was too much for his build. Watching him for a couple of weeks, Rodney knew that he hustled dope. He could tell because he was always fresh and had his jewelry game tight. The young man also had a flattop fade with a blonde stripe in the front, so he was easy to spot.

      Cruising through the same neighborhood a week later, Detective Clifton saw his mark then activated his patrol car lights and siren. The few skeezers and what looked like bums who surrounded him scattered like roaches but the young man didn't budge. He just looked at the officer.

      With a cocky attitude, Rodney got out of his car, with his hands on his department issued belt which held his handcuffs, mace, night stick and gun.

      “What'cha doing out here, Marco?” he asked, looking at the young man's belt buckle which displayed MARCO in gold letters.

      Marco looked down at his belt buckle then answered with a major irritated and condescending tone in his voice, “conductin' bible study man and you just dismissed my flock. What the fuck you think I'm doin' out here?”

      “Watch yo smart ass mouth boy!” the officer grunted through tightly clenched teeth.

      “What da hell you want man? I got bidness to finish.”

      Officer Clifton noticed the attitude. “Get yo hands on the hood and spread ‘em!”

      “For what? I didn't do nothing,” Marco protested angrily.

      Reluctantly, Marco did as he was told, mumbling under his breath while the officer frisked him. Marco was confident that the small package he picked up earlier woudn't be found.

      “Turn around,” the officer ordered when he didn't feel anything on the initial pat down.

      When Marco did as he was told, the officer did something that caught him off guard. After patting him down again, the officer stuck his hands inside of the front of Marco's pants.

      “What the fuck…man, get yo hands…what you tryna do!” He tried to wrestle the cop away, but it was useless.

      The officer felt around Marco's dick and balls and pulled out a small baggie. Taking a deep sniff of the bag, the officer smiled and spoke in a teasing tone, “I see you got a large,” he pointed toward Marco's hardening dick, “and small package.” He waived the baggie in the air. “This looks like an ounce or two to me. Do you know how long this will get you?”

      “Man…please…” Marco began to cry like a true bitch. “That's my boy's shit man, I'm just…”

      “Under arrest for the possession of narcotics and intent to distribute,” Rodney told Marco as he slapped the handcuffs on his wrists and led him to his patrol car.

      Instead of sitting him in the back of the squad car, the officer shoved Marco in the front passenger's side, then he got in on the drivers side and began to drive. Not knowing where he was going, Marco tried to explain himself only to stop moments later when they pulled up in an empty alley. The officer left his car running.

      “What the fuck we doin here?” Marco asked.

      “This a short cut to the precinct. I gotta book you.”

      “Please man, no,” Marco begged continuously.

      “Well,” Detective Clifton looked at Marco with a glimmer in his eye. “If you give me a reason not to book you, I may forget about this.”

      “Please don't arrest me. I can't do no jail time. Please.” The wannabe hustler left Marco with a quickness.

      “Aw, now you beggin. You ain't flappin off at the lips no more like you were before,” the officer teased. “I got something for you to do with those lips man.”

      “Anything, I'll do anything,” Marco pleaded.

      “Anything?”

      “Yes, anything.”